


Abyss

by leahxleah



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drowning, F/M, M/M, Mermaids, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:45:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1476835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leahxleah/pseuds/leahxleah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire first meets Enjolras and the rest of the amis when he almost drowns, only to discover his rescuers are not from the world he knows. Mermaid AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hanbanana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanbanana/gifts).



> Inspired by a text post on tumblr that was along the lines of, 'what if people who die in the ocean become mermaids?' I had fun with that, because it meant I could play with the races of all of the amis, because the historical period (1600s) this piece is set in meant a good deal of the world was exploring and trading through ocean routes. For hanbanana. I hope you like it! :)

Grantaire is a young man the first time he drowns. 

He had picked up work on a passing ship, unaware of the Captain and crew’s true intentions, and had been hired as a cabin boy. 

But he was always too curious, and for some reason the eyes of young dreamers always drift to the wrong places. After three days out at sea, they toss him to the sharks, and the artist drowned.

It is a terrifying sensation, liquid filling your lungs. It burns and stings, along with every other inch of your skin, and your eyes open wide as you search for the sky. But it’s night, and there’s no moon to guide him; he’s alone and his chest is collapsing. To say it hurt would be to say the ocean is wet, or that the sky doesn’t end—you could put it into words, but never be able to convey the sensation. His head ached, and everything was cold as the world slipped beyond his fingertips.

There is nothing worse than not being able to swim when you love the sea. He always knew he’d drown, even when he was a little boy, but he didn’t know it would be this painful or that he would feel so cold. And lonely. He didn’t think he had time to be lonely, but in the seconds before he drifted into unconsciousness, he had never been more isolated. The water had ripped him from the entire human race, and he let himself drift to sleep. The last thing he saw was his own hand reaching up—or was it down?—towards something gold, and then he was gone.

He wanted to be dead, when he first stirred. Rocks were digging into his spine, and the air was stinging his skin. His lungs were on fire, but he was cold—he didn’t want to open his eyes, sure he would be in hell. That was what awaited him, right? Were there exceptions for people who didn’t care whether or not they were bad or good? 

Opening his eyes hurt, and he groaned when he inhaled. Water drifted down his forehead from his curls, forming deltas and then meeting against, dancing on his skin. The salt had consumed every ridge on his tongue and he could feel it in between his teeth; when he sat up, it gritted between his teeth.

“Well, he looks like cra—“

“—Courf, shhh!” declared two voices, and he glanced around him. As far as he could see, there was no land—he was alone in a wide sea, his clothing glued to his skin. His only oasis was a small outcropping of rock, no longer than a meter in diameter, and it was sharp enough to cut his palm. 

“Hello?” he called out, but his throat was rough from disuse and he sounded as though he was speaking from the bottom of a well.

There was a splash, and he whirled around. All he was met with was a flash of tail.

It didn’t take him by surprise, as he had heard stories about sailors hallucinating after drinking ocean water, so he chalked it up to that, stretching his toes out into the water, wishing his pounding headache away. This outcropping, he realised, was no blessing. Without food or water, he would be dead in a few days anyway. He doubted another ship would come along. He wished he could have drowned.

“Hello?” he croaked out again, mostly for the sake of keeping himself company. The sound echoed as Grantaire faded into and out of sleep.

“See? Told you he was alive,” a husky female voice said, and Grantaire opened an eye, turning it towards the sea. Three faces gazed back at him, but before he could say anything, their eyes widened dramatically.

“Shit, shit—Eponine!” a beautiful blonde woman hissed, hitting the husky voiced woman, who looked equally alarmed.   
A pale, freckled boy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “No one tell Enjolras,” he muttered. “You know how he feels about sailors.”

“Are you okay?” Grantaire ground out. “Did your ship sink?”

There was a long pause, and all three of them looked at each other, obviously uncomfortable. The blonde disappeared below a small wave, and the other woman rolled her eyes. The boy inched closer, placing his hands on Grantaire’s rock, his lips by Grantaire’s ear.

“Yes,” the freckled boy said. “But that was a very long time ago.”

“And you still haven’t been rescued?” Grantaire asked, an edge of desperation in his voice.

“Oh, you’ll be rescued,” the freckled boy said.

“What’s your name?” Grantaire asked. 

Again, the boy was quiet. After a beat, he said, “Feuilly.” With that, his shock of red hair disappeared below the waves, and all that was left was the husky-voiced woman. She looked at him with dark eyes and dark hair plastered to her forehead, then   
lightly grasped his hand. Hers was cold. 

“Come with me,” she murmured, and Grantaire blinked rapidly, confused. 

“Where?”

“Down below,” she said.

He shook his head, shutting his eyes tiredly. “I can’t swim.”

“You’ll learn,” she began, but she was cut off abruptly by a sharp voice.

“Eponine!” a blonde man growled, and she withdrew from Grantaire, her eyes smiling as she slipped under water.   
Grantaire had to turn his head to see the blonde man, who gazed up at him with sculpted cheeks and wet hair, although his curls were still visible. Before the man could say anything else, Grantaire had offered him a hand, moving over on the rock.

“How long have all of you been out here? Aren’t your legs tired?” he asked.

A dark head of curls popped up from above the water, laughing jovially. “Oh so tired,” he declared. “So tired I can’t even feel them anymore!”

The blond shoved the dark haired man back under the water again, although the curls popped up again a meter away, swimming in circles. Grantaire offered the blond man the hand again, which he looked at skeptically.

“My name’s Grantaire. I won’t hurt you.”

“Of course not. I’d drown you long before you got the chance,” the blond replied, steel eyes gazing at Grantaire. He suddenly felt very cold.

“Enjolras,” said a patient voice, although it had an element of chastising in it, “Drowning sailors makes no difference to us, remember? They already drown themselves. Look at this lad—went to sea and can’t swim.”

“Idiot,” the blond—Enjolras—said, pulling himself up onto the rock.

Grantaire would have gasped, only his lungs already ached, so he took in the tail that was in the place of legs in silence. He did a few double takes, then sighed.

“I’m dreaming, right?”

“Of course,” another voice said from the water, a brunet man with a small smile playing on his lips, and star fish wound up in his hair. “Everything is a dream.”

“Hello, Jehan!” cried the dark, curly haired man. The chastising voice chuckled, and Grantaire turned to see a Spanish man with glasses balanced on his nose.

“What are your names?” Grantaire asked. “I mean, if it’s a dream, it doesn’t make much of a difference.”

The man with glasses looked cautiously at Enjolras, who shrugged. 

“You’ll be dead soon, so I’m Enjolras,” the blond said, flexing his large tail, which was a deep shade of burgundy. Grantaire was careful to keep his hands to himself, despite wanting to run his hands over the scales.

“Combeferre,” said the man with glasses, smiling politely. 

Next to him, the brunet with starfish in his hair said, “Jehan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance!” swimming up to him and pressing a light kiss on his cheek. 

The dark, curly haired man looked desolately over at the interaction, crossing his arms over his chest and then letting the tip of his tail stick up above the water. He splashed Grantaire in the face with a few drops of water, then said, “Courfeyrac.”

“Feuilly,” the red haired man said, beaming at Grantaire. 

Next to him, the blonde woman stuck her head up again, a shell stretched out on her hands with seaweed spread out over it. She handed it to him, smiling gently, then when Courfeyrac swam up behind her with the intention of poking her in the ribs, she elbowed him sharply in the stomach before he could. Courfeyrac groaned, swimming backwards. “I’m Cosette,” she said, the smile not having altered in the slightest.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, smiling at her.

“He can’t just eat seaweed. Even dried out, it won’t be enough to keep him alive on. What he needs is fresh water,” said a nervous-looking, Asian man who swam up behind Grantaire, tugging on his wet clothes. “Also, he may get cold. We have to get him somewhere warm and dry if we want him to live.”

“Let him die,” Enjolras said.

“You mean drown?” Combeferre asked, and Enjolras shook his head. 

“His race stranded him. Let them save him.”

“Enjolras—“

“—they pollute the water. They kill each other. Do you remember how we found Bossuet? In chains, at the bottom of the ocean?”   
Enjolras shook his head, droplets of water hitting Grantaire.

“Obviously he’s different,” Jehan contributed, patting Grantaire’s hand. “They left him all alone. He needs friends. We can be his friends. Would you like that?” he asked Grantaire.

“Yeah, be our friend, Legs,” Courfeyrac said, splashing him again. He accidentally hit Enjolras, who sent him a sharp glare, making Courfeyrac sink below the water again.

“We don’t have to befriend him. He’s lucky enough that we put him on this rock.”

“That wasn’t ‘we’, Enj, that was you,” Jehan said, smiling at the blonde and then allowing his blue tail to flick above the water.

“Shut up. I just didn’t want more of us. The more of us there are, the more likely it is sailors will see us.”

“The sea is huge,” Feuilly said, brushing up against Enjolras playfully. “Limitlessly deep and long. Just when you’ve reached the   
end, it wraps around again. There’s no way they’ll ever find us. Not for hundreds of years.”

A brown head jutted up from under the water, grabbing Joly and pulling him under, and Joly shrieked. Grantaire sat up, but Enjolras patted him lightly on the arm. Moments later Joly leaped into the air, arching over them, pursued by the other man who flitted through the water below them. 

“Bossuet!” Joly cried, and the two wrestled playfully among white caps. 

Enjolras sighed, slipping off Grantaire’s rock. Before he could swim away, he stopped himself, suddenly transfixed by Grantaire’s feet. 

“Look at these,” he said, poking at exposed heels and toes, marvelling at their shrivelled, pink appearance. “You can do so much with these. Run. Jump. Skip. And instead you use them to step on others.”

“I don’t,” Grantaire said quietly. 

“So you claim.”

“No, really. I’m an artist—or, at least, I used to be. I needed work, that’s all. And look where that got me,” Grantaire mused, staring up at the sky wistfully. “I might very well starve to death.”

“Staring at fish,” Courfeyrac mused, tapping Grantaire’s chin with the tip of his tail. 

Grantaire began to pick at the seaweed Cosette had brought him, wincing slightly at its taste at first, but eventually adjusting to the flavour. Enjolras picked a strand off of his plate, eating it while gazing at Grantaire sideways. After they ate in silence, Enjolras exhaled in a way that meant he had decided something.

“Here’s what is going to happen,” he said. “You are going to wrap your arms around my neck, and I’ll carry you to a boat. We have to wait until night, though, so they can’t see me.”

“Are you serious?” Grantaire asked, reaching forward and grabbing his toes, which Enjolras was still playing with. “Wait, don’t—don’t you sometimes drown people?”

“No, we’re people who have drowned,” Bossuet supplied, his face losing its smile. “You’ve got it backwards.”

“We could drown you, though,” said the familiar husky voice, and Eponine broke the surface again. “Then you could be like us.”

“He’s an artist,” Enjolras said. “He needs to go back to his art.”

“I—“ Grantaire began, then shut his mouth, realising Enjolras had a very valid point. The only thing he would regret leaving behind would be the paintings he left unfinished. And if he lived, he had hundreds of paintings that needed to be done still—inspiration was playing among the waves in front of him, laughing and giving the waves their froth. 

Two days later, when Grantaire was pulled up onto the deck of a ship and his pulse was checked, he coughed and spluttered his way back to life. He stared up at the very human sets of faces, which gazed down at him in amazement, and asked him what had happened. 

All he could say was, “I drowned.”


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, they call him insane. He stops telling people, and decides he doesn’t care. He begins to drink quite a bit. His paintings become fantastical, and people like fantasy—eventually, he can afford his own schooner, and he’s out on the seas again, a one man crew and his own Captain. It takes him five days, this time, to find the outcrop of rock that he laid on before, and he considers sitting on it and waiting. 

Instead, he ties the schooner to it and waits. And waits, and waits. For a day, the seas are still.

But when night falls, the red sky that the morning had brought delivered the promise of the evening’s storm. The schooner began to rock up and down among the waves, and soon the wind battered Grantaire’s face. He felt his skin grow wet with rain, and he knew something similar was leaking from his eyes. The only way to tell the difference was in the temperature of the liquid.

“Jehan?” he cried out, although the wind swept up his words. It occurred to him, then, that his friends may have been a fever dream from the days he spent starving at sea, clinging to an outcrop of rock. His mind’s way of keeping him company as his body broke down and began to die.

“Feuilly?” he tried. Still, only the cruel whistle of the wind. He took another swig of the bottle in his hand.

“Combeferre?” Nature was the only response.

“Courfeyrac? Joly? Cosette?” Wind, water.

“Bossuet? Eponine?” Nothing. Not even stillness as a comfort.

For a while, he let the elements erode him, letting his skin grow numb as his sail came undone and began to flap loosely in the wind. The schooner attempted to pull away from Grantaire’s rock but was tugged closer again by the rope, which was being beaten by the waves. 

A gust caught the water on just the right angle, and a small flood of water poured into the schooner, leaving him wet up to his knees as he sat, wondering if he should take the mast down. It occurred to him that this was very dangerous, reckless behaviour, but he had become a very dangerous, reckless man. He wanted to return to the friends he had known only for three or so days; he felt as though he never should have left them in the first place. Even staring at the sea made him miserable with longing.

Finally, as salt water sprayed onto his face, he tried, “Enjolras?”

For almost a minute, there was nothing. Then Grantaire put his hand on the side of the boat, only to find another hand was already resting there. He looked down in shock at the warm digits, although he was met with more than just a disembodied hand—Enjolras unimpressed face was perched on top of them. 

“You better help me up,” Enjolras pointed out, and Grantaire offered him a hand. With a smooth tug, Enjolras flopped onto the deck of Grantaire’s ship, water covering a good portion of it, now.

Before he could say anything that was even more snarky, Grantaire kneeled on either side of Enjolras’ tail and wrapped his arms around the merman, pulling him close. “I missed you,” he muttered into Enjolras’ ear, and Enjolras awkwardly patted his back in response. When it became clear Grantaire had no intention of ending the hug quickly, Enjolras threaded his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, then quickly pulled away. 

“It took you a long time to come back,” Enjolras accused. “It’s been almost five years.”

“You look the same,” Grantaire said, sitting up against the side of the schooner.

“We don’t age. You do. You’re a man, now. Not quite wrinkles, but you get the point. Lines. Stubble. Alcohol. No more dreams,” Enjolras flicked his tail. “Committed any genocides since I last saw you?”

“No, I’ll have you know,” he replied. 

“Your ship is sinking.”

“No, just floating downwards,” Grantaire said. 

“You want to drown,” Enjolras stated, shaking his head. 

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Because, I missed all of you. Even you. Okay, maybe you in particular—but it doesn’t matter. I don’t belong out there.”

“You think you’ll fit in here?”

“I did before.”

Enjolras sighed, sitting up. He tugged off one of Grantaire’s shoes and then the sock underneath it, counting all the toes. “You’ve kept them all,” he remarked. 

“I considered trading them, but I know how much you liked them.”

“I do,” Enjolras said, looking up at Grantaire again. “Five years, for us, is not a very long time. Time goes fast. Humans get so much done in five years—most of it horrible, but plenty of things. But these five years went very slowly.”

“Worst five years I’ve ever had. But most of my years haven’t been great,” Grantaire smiled. “Did you know I can’t eat fish anymore? Especially not salmon.”

“I am not salmon coloured,” Enjolras retorted. “Unless you mean red salmon. We swam with some of those last spring, but we had to go very far away. Combeferre knew the name of the country, but I don’t think it mattered. Underwater there aren’t any countries.”

“I painted you, last spring,” Grantaire told him. “Some rich old man was willing to pay far too much money for it. I gave him a copy, but he didn’t notice the difference.”

Enjolras looked at him blankly, pressing a cold finger to Grantaire’s nose, feeling the heat of the dry skin, and then pulling away.

“I found a cave, under your rock. It has air in it. Not too deep down—do you want to see it?” he asked, and Grantaire nodded. He kicked off his remaining shoe, which was heavy with water, then stepped out of the boat into the cold water. After a gasp at how cold it was, he began to tread it, and Enjolras smiled. 

“You learned to swim.”

“Couldn’t be a complete idiot, could I?” Grantaire replied, wrapping his arms tightly around Enjolras’ waist, who was muttering something about all humans being idiots. Grantaire took a deep breath, then held it as Enjolras dove down. 

For what felt like an eternity, but what couldn’t have been longer than thirty seconds, Enjolras pulled Grantaire deeper under water. Finally, Grantaire opened his eyes to find he was in a small cove, a rock ceiling above him and on either side. Enjolras smiled softly at him, but the expression was cut short when Courfeyrac swam up alongside Enjolras then leaped out of the water, embracing Grantaire. 

“Legs!” he cried, holding Grantaire closely. “I’ve missed you terribly!”

Soon after, the rest of the group flooded the cove, stretching out alongside Grantaire on the smooth rock shelf. Enjolras, of course, was the only one allowed to be directly next to Grantaire, but the others crowded him in the space that smelled like sea water and earth, which was what they were surrounded by.

Within the hour, Jehan had tucked three star fish in Grantaire’s curls, and was musing what colour fin Grantaire would have if he joined them. A sharp look from Enjolras shut him up, and soon everyone was telling Grantaire stories of the oceans around the world.

“There’s one—“ Eponine began, “—that's very cold. By the side of that large continent—you know, that massive one. Anyway, we found tons of us there, swimming in hundreds of wrecks. Do you know what was weird, though?” she stretched her tail out. “They were all young. Not children, but youthful, like us. And it made me think, and after I’d thought for a while, I realised I’ve only seen one age of our species.”

“Maybe the older ones go to heaven?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras stuck the tip of his fin between Grantaire’s big toe and index one stubbornly.

“No, I think it’s just that all sailors die young,” Enjolras replied. “You shouldn’t be a sailor. It isn’t safe.”

“There are plenty of sailors who live long lives. And old people drown, too,” Grantaire rebutted. 

“My theory is that you become young again,” Combeferre said, lying next to Enjolras. 

“Why?”

“Excellent question. I’m not entirely sure how this process works, but science is not as advanced as it needs to be to explain the mysteries of the universe. Also, no one knows we exist,” Combeferre stated, pulling back a damp strand of hair from his face. 

“Don’t tell them,” Grantaire stated. “They’ll either kill you for sport or drown themselves to become like you. You wouldn’t want that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Cosette remarked. “It is lonely, down here.”

“How? You have each other,” Grantaire said. 

“Because we can hear them, sometimes. Running, breathing, choking, laughing, kissing, crying—it is hard to feel that alive when you’re under water,” Cosette said. “And yes, there are good moments. There are moments when we can feel like that. But we can’t love like the way humans can.”

“Yes we can,” Enjolras said, determinedly. “We can.”

“How do you know that?” Courfeyrac asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Because we’re better than them,” he said. 

“You think you’re better than Grantaire?” Jehan asked, and Enjolras flinched.

“I didn’t say that—“

“—it’s the opposite way around, Enjolras. They get to die.”

“Dying isn’t special,” Grantaire assured Cosette. “Neither is love. I don’t think either of us are better than one another. Maybe that’s why we should stay separate, because we’d be jealous of the things we can’t have that the other does.”

“You shouldn’t,” Jehan said. “You’re our friend, and we only get so many years with you as it is—unless you join us—“

“—no,” Enjolras said bluntly. 

“There’s room for one more,” Combeferre began, but Enjolras glared him into submission.

“No exceptions, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, a sad smile crossing his features. “I thought you might have changed your mind—“

“—no,” he stated, but he wasn’t looking at Grantaire. His position hadn’t altered, and his tail remained tucked between Grantaire’s toes. “Besides, what would you have me do? Drown him? Hold him down until he breathed in water, watch him cry and choke and beg, just like last time?”

“You might not have to be there,” Grantaire pointed out. “I could just sail into a storm—“

“—no,” Enjolras countered. “You will go home, to land. You will be happy and find a wife with legs, and the two of you will have many children with legs, and the world will be populated with thousands of you.”

“What difference does my having children make?” Grantaire asked. 

“Every difference,” Enjolras stated, finally looking at Grantaire with blue eyes that were far too human to ever be associated with the sea.

Grantaire washed up on a piece of his schooner four days later, pieces of seaweed wrapped around his ankles and star fish in his hair.


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire, of course, did not get married.

He did, however, have a child—but the boy was given to him by a shipwreck, not through a partner. He drifted up onto the beach, and Grantaire realised the only life that Enjolras could ask him to lead would be this one. 

“You’re doing good, Gav,” he encouraged Gavroche, who grinned up at him as they pulled up a large net full of fish, none of which Grantaire would eat. Gavroche was thoroughly confused by this, but mostly he made fun of Grantaire for it.

“None of the fish are jumping,” Gavroche pointed out, although he watched the ocean the way a zookeeper might watch the wild.   
His eyes shifted against the dark waves, as though watching for any sign of movement.

“They won’t if you keep watching for them.”

“I’m not. I’m looking for mermaids.”

“Mermaids?”

“Their upper half is human,” Gavroche said, gesturing to his body, “and their lower half is like a fish, but pretty. One big tail. If you die in the ocean, you become one.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Yes there is. My parents told me so,” Gavroche said, sitting against the side of the boat, leaning back until his spine was bent, dipping his hair in the water. “That’s what happened to my sister, before I was born. She drowned and joined the mermaids,” he grinned at Grantaire. “I know you believe in them.”

“Oh?”

Gavroche stared out at the water, already losing interest in that conversation. “Who is Enjolras?”

Grantaire nervously glanced at the water. “Shh,” he said.

“Why?” Gavroche asked. “We’re all alone. There’s no fish to get scared. Who is Enjolras?”

“I don’t know—“

“—you say his name when you sleep. Sometimes you’ll have a bad dream, say that name and then go all quiet. Is he your friend? Is he a spirit?”

“No, not a spirit, and don’t say it so loudly—“

“—why not? Enjolras!” Gavroche cried, grinning from ear to ear. “Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras!”

“Gavroche,” Grantaire hissed, and then froze. Behind him, the water rippled. 

He took a deep breath, doing his best not to turn around. “Gav, there’s no such thing as—what did you call them?” he tried, but the laugh in the water gave it all away, and Gavroche stood up abruptly, crossing the boat.

“Is there someone in the water?” he asked Grantaire.

“Why would there be?”

“Mermaid—“

“—I don’t like that term,” said the voice in the water, and Grantaire turned around, sighing.

“I didn’t tell him, you know.”

“I know, I heard everything,” the voice said. 

Gavroche darted towards it, then jumping back in shock when he saw the head of blond curls in the dark water, and scurried up the rigging instead. He gazed down at Enjolras in shock, who gazed up at him at first blankly, then smiled softly.

“You took my advice?”

“Not exactly,” Grantaire replied.

“He doesn’t look like you. He’s blond,” Enjolras said, shaking his head. “Nothing like you.”

Gavroche’s eyes hadn’t left Enjolras, whose red tail curled up behind him, the tip occasionally breaching the water and dipping   
into air before returning underwater.

“He’s not mine, strictly speaking,” Grantaire said. “He’s adopted.”

“Do you have a wife, then?”

“No.”

“So you didn’t take my advice,” Enjolras said, his expression an odd mix of relief and anger. 

“You—“ Gavroche said, “—you’re the man in the paintings.”

“Come again?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire shot Gavroche a look, silencing him. When no response came, he redirected his cool gaze to Grantaire, gesturing for him to come closer. Grantaire kneeled, leaning his head towards the water.

“Grantaire, don’t!” Gavroche said. “They drown people!”

“It’s okay,” Grantaire assured him, lowering his head so Enjolras could reach up, grabbing his cheekbones, running a finger over the skin that crinkled at the edge of his eyes and the corners of his mouth. 

“You’re older,” Enjolras said, pushing a black curl back from Grantaire’s forehead. “Not as angry, though.”

“Why do you sound so sad?”

“No reason,” Enjolras said. 

“Where’s everyone else?”

“West coast of—“ he paused, thinking hard, “—Africa, I think you call it, now. Near the South. Rough waters, there.”

“Why aren’t you there?”

Enjolras said nothing, but continued to gaze at Grantaire. He stroked the fine lines over his forehead, as if he could smooth them away, and Grantaire no longer felt the sting of salt water. 

“You were here last year, too,” Grantaire pointed out. “And in the East, and the West. I thought it was everyone, but in retrospect, I only saw your tail. You can swim anywhere, Enjolras. Why are you here?”

“I like the water here,” he said defensively. 

“It’s cold, rough and rocky.”

“I enjoy those things.”

“No caves, no coral reefs—just very old shipwrecks. Not much left of them, really.”

“I know.”

“But why are you alone?”

“I have spent nearly a hundred years with them. I can take a break when I like,” Enjolras said. 

“And how long have you been alone?”

“Four years, or so.”

“Since we last saw each other?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“Sometimes.”

“Can I touch you?” Gavroche asked, crawling down from the scaffolding. “Or will you drown me?”

“I won’t drown you,” Enjolras stated, dipping his fingers into Grantaire’s collarbone, pressing against the heartbeat he felt throbbing away underneath. “I’ve never drowned anyone.”

Cautiously, Gavroche kneeled beside Grantaire, sticking his four fingers over the edge, almost withdrawing when Enjolras pressed his fingers against Gavroche’s. The two stared at each other for a minute, then Gavroche furrowed his eyebrows.

“Aren’t you cold?”

“You get used to it.”

“Do you drink?”

“No.”

“Do you eat?”

“Only sometimes.”

“Have you seen my parents?” 

Enjolras paused. “Do they look like you?”

“Yes.”

“One is darker, one is fair?”

“Yes,” Gavroche said, getting excited.

“Yes, but not here,” Enjolras said.

“In the ocean?”

“No.”

Gavroche’s face fell. “So they aren’t mermaids, then?”

“No.” Enjolras looked at Grantaire again, touching his face gently. “You wouldn’t want that. They would miss you too much. It is a terrible thing, to miss someone.”

Grantaire nudged a strand of hair out of Enjolras’ eyes, and the other man regarded him with an unreadable look. “I’m old, now.”

“Not that old. Your hair is still dark, mostly,” Enjolras said. “Your legs are still strong. You can still pull on those ropes. You are young in the ways that matter.”

“I feel very old.”

“And I feel young. Feelings are deceiving.”

“Enjolras—“

“—you’re Enjolras?” Gavroche asked.

“Yes,” he said. “And you’re Gavroche.”

“Can you read minds?”

“No, I just have ears,” Enjolras said. “You get in trouble often. How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Do you want to be a sailor?”

“No, I want to change the world.”

“On the land?” 

“Yes.”

“Then stay on land,” Enjolras said. “People have a habit of drowning out here.”

With that, Enjolras pulled himself up against the boat, until his face was level with Grantaire’s. He paused, as if remembering something, then tipping his head forward and kissing Grantaire lightly. Grantaire hooked his fingers on the edge of Enjolras’ jaw, pressing his lips against the other man’s until he slipped away, the dark water swallowing him.

Gavroche remained hooked over the edge, watching the water. From time to time, he looked back up at Grantaire, expecting an answer. When none came, he decided to speak.

“Wait, please.”

“What?” Grantaire asked, frowning.

“Wait for me to grow up,” Gavroche said. “So I can come see you. Because I would miss you, too.”

Grantaire ruffled his hair affectionately. “Don’t worry. I want a front row seat to watch you change the world.”


	4. Chapter 4

He is fifty years old when he goes out to sea for the last time. He steers his boat through calm, idyllic waters, searching for storms. None come. He spends four days living off of limited supplies, and gazing up at the stars reflected in the mirror beneath him. Grantaire is careful not to steer into familiar waters, because Enjolras won’t let him drift away, or let him drown, no matter how old he is.

Finally, he finds a storm. He thought it would be easy, turning the rudder of his ship into oblivion, but it was much more difficult than that. 

Wind whipped at his skin, and he felt his eyes fill with tears as every inch of him was battered with salt water and the occasional loose rope. It didn’t help that his stomach dropped every time his ship dipped down with a wave, but he shut his eyes.  
Of course, the hardest part was letting go of the rudder, letting the ship hurl itself into a wave. Instantly, he was met with a solid wall of water, and it writhes its way up his nose. A chunk of his ship strikes him in the sound, and when he opened his mouth to cry out, he inhaled a lungful of water. He opens his eyes to try and find the surface, but the clouds have blocked the moon and he is surrounded by the dark. There is no up, and there is no down.

Until there are arms around his waist hauling him upwards, pulling him upwards. He reaches the surface and begins to cough, but words are interspersed with every gasp for air.

“En—jol—ras—“ he wheezes, “—let—g-o—“

“I’ll find land,” Enjolras promises, one hand tight around Grantaire’s waist and the other one wrapped around his chest. “There’s always land. Don’t worry, I’ll find some. Some where you can rest. One mile East, there is a small island—or is it West? I can’t see—“

“—Enj—“

“—Don’t worry. Don’t be scared. I did it before, Grantaire. I found you deep down, and pulled you up, and you were okay—“

“—pl—“

“—focus on breathing,” Enjolras ordered, pushing forward firmly, refusing to slacken his grip around Grantaire. “Cough. Get the water out. It’s blocking your airway.”

“—ple—“

“Stay with me, R. Don’t let your head drop. Stay awake. Stay with me.”

“—st—ay—“

“—I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. Land, land, land,” Enjolras said, but his voice was growing frantic. “Grantaire, you have to keep breathing. Listen to me. Listen to my voice. Breathe. Don’t give up. Don’t give up on me—I’ll find land, I’ll keep going—please, please kick, ok? You’re heavy—“

Enjolras’ arms were growing weak, and he was beginning to tear up, but he focused instead on vague shapes in the darkness, which he swam towards. 

“Don’t leave me, Grantaire,” Enjolras panted, tightening his grip.

“N—ever,” Grantaire choked out, patting Enjolras’ arm lightly. “Enj—“

“—shh, save your strength—“

“—wa—rm—blo—od,” he stammered, his teeth beginning to chatter hard against each other, making breathing even more difficult. His lips had started turning blue. “Shhhh—arks.”

Enjolras felt the aforementioned blood seep out from between his fingertips, hotter than the rapidly cooling body he was clutching.

“We’re close now,” he said, pressing his lips into Grantaire’s hair. “Do you see those dark shapes?” hot liquid was spilling down his face. “So close, now. Just another five minutes. We can get there, just stay with me.”

Grantaire didn’t respond, but wrapped cold fingers around Enjolras’ hand. 

“—Al—ri—ght,” he said, after a while, “wi—th—“

“Alright with what?” Enjolras asked. 

Grantaire smiled sardonically up at Enjolras, tipping his head back to rest on Enjolras’ shoulder. 

“Look, the black things are right up ahead,” Enjolras said.

“Sh-ip-ips,” Grantaire said, then began to cough again. 

“Ships are good,” Enjolras said. “They can take you—keep you sa—“ but before he could finish, he realised what Grantaire was talking about. Ahead of them were the remains of two sinking ships, only fragments of them remaining. What was still above the surface was quickly sinking beneath it, swallowed by the tongue of a leviathan.

Grantaire rolled his head to the side, pressing a kiss to the side of Enjolras’ neck, and then went slack in Enjolras’ arms. Enjolras swam on for as long as he could, jostling Grantaire desperately, but after a while he realised Grantaire was only pulling him downwards, no longer carrying enough oxygen to keep him floating.

Enjolras let Grantaire drag him down, their fingers still entwined, despite Grantaire’s having gone cold. Enjolras ducked his head into the side of Grantaire’s neck, trying to remember how he had died, all of those years ago. He couldn’t seem to remember. Somehow, his death would not be comparable to Grantaire’s. His body had always been a part of the sea; his hair blond seaweed, his limbs driftwood. Grantaire was a man made of skin and bone. He had strong, powerful legs and rough fingers and—  
\--and they had hit the bottom. Grantaire’s back bumped gently against the sand, and Enjolras refused to let him go, other than to prop up his head. He rested his cheek against Grantaire’s chest, and the silence that followed was the thickest sound he had ever heard. 

The storm raged on, and then ate itself hole. The night ended. Day revealed nothing, so far away from sunlight. Night began again, and then ended. Day tried to filter down to the bottom of the ocean, but nothing came.

When Combeferre found Enjolras, he had still not moved. 

“He’s not coming,” Enjolras said, barely turning to look at Combeferre. “The sand washed over most of him. I kept his chest and his face clear, Combeferre, but he’s not breathing, his heart isn’t beating—“

Combeferre wrapped a hand around Enjolras’ arm, tugging him back gently. Enjolras continued to cling to Grantaire’s hand, and Combeferre sighed, brushing hair back from Enjolras’ eyes.

“Have you moved off of him, since he…?”

“No.”

“Then how is he supposed to breathe, Enjolras?”

“I wasn’t lying on top of him, I was just—“

“—give him space, and let me look at him,” Combeferre said, bending down to cup the back of Grantaire’s head, dark curls flying   
free. The fines lines around his face had smoothed over, and his hair was a dark as the day they had first met. When there was no response, Combeferre stuck his hands under Grantaire’s armpits, pulling.

Grantaire came free from the sand, a dark green, thick tail in the place where his legs used to be, webbing encasing his toes.

“Why isn’t he breathing, then?” Enjolras asked, gripping Grantaire’s hand tightly.

“Let go,” Combeferre said, patiently. 

“Of what?”

“His hand.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll float away.”

“It’s all right, I’ve got him. I won’t let go.” Combeferre didn’t feel the need to point out there was no current to drag Grantaire   
away, but patted Grantaire’s head instead. “Just for a second.”

Reluctantly, Enjolras let his fingers slip from Grantaire’s hand, only to find them caught again.

“I can’t,” Enjolras said.

“Rigor mortis,” Combeferre remarked. “Try again.”

Enjolras firmly tugged his hand back, and it left the hold of Grantaire’s fingers, receding an inch backwards before Grantaire’s hand lunged forward and seized Enjolras’ again. Slowly, Grantaire’s eyes fluttered open, and he let out a groan, rubbing at his forehead.

“God, where am I?” he asked, shutting his eyes again. “Why is it so dark? Where was I last night? Was I on a bender?” he opened his eyes again, only to find Enjolras staring down at him, floating above Grantaire with a soft smile on his face. “No, I’m dreaming still.”

Enjolras gently pressed their foreheads together, entwining their fingers and pressing a soft kiss to Grantaire’s lips. 

“Hello,” he said.

“Hey,” Grantaire replied, grinning back at him.

“I’ve missed you.”

Grantaire wrapped his hand in Enjolras hair, tugging him closer. “You shouldn’t have. I never went far.”

“Far and near are relative terms,” Enjolras stated, rubbing his tale against Grantaire’s, and then brushing their fins together, sighing. “No more toes. I loved your toes.”

“Just my toes?”

“I am a fan of your fingers, as well,” Enjolras replied.

“Well, Captain, my Captain,” Grantaire teased, “may I stay?”

“Only if you promise never to leave.”

“That was my intention, yes.”

“I’ll let the others know,” Combeferre said, smiling down at Grantaire. “It’s good to see you again.”

Enjolras and Grantaire barely had a minute to themselves before they heard the all too familiar shriek of, “Legs!” from Courfeyrac. The dark head of curls dove into the sand beneath them, reappearing on the other side, wrapping around them happily.

“Green!” Courfeyrac cried, running a hand over Grantaire’s tail. “Green is a great colour!”

Jehan appeared shyly, smiling at Grantaire and tucking a starfish into his hair. Joly and Bossuet swam joyous circles around Grantaire and Enjolras, knocking them around playfully and jostling them. 

Cosette reached Grantaire last, long blonde curls swirling around her. The group of them weren’t still for four days—flashes of scales were almost visible from the surface, if anyone looked closely enough. Green and red shimmered in tandem, ducking up between waves and then plunging down again, unafraid of the consequences of lungs. It was, naturally, difficult to spot them. The ocean remained vast and limitless.

Twenty five years in the future, a storm raged off of the East Coast of South America. A tall ship was battered back and forth by waves taller than buildings, and water darker than the sky itself. Lightning forked the sky, and the crew waited for the knife that would follow it, slicing them into small pieces. Marius Pontmercy raced across the slick deck of the ship, grabbing desperately at ropes, until a heavy gust knocked him off of his feet, sending him into the abyss.


End file.
